Lamorak closed his eyes.
The weight of everything the battle, the losses, the future that still loomed before them pressed down on his shoulders like a physical force. He took a breath, steadying himself, and spoke.
"So what do we do now?"
He opened his eyes and looked at Gareth at the devil, at the man who had shown him the truth, at the only one who seemed to see clearly through the fog of rage and grief.
"That bastard has entered the zone." He gestured toward Mordred's still form frozen, detached, beyond. "He's going for the divine sense within it."
His jaw tightened.
"Won't it be a problem for the king?"
Gareth was quiet for a moment.
His eyes red, burning, ancient studied Mordred's form, the stillness of his body, the absence of his presence. He had seen the zone before. Had felt it, in moments of desperation, in the final breaths of dying enemies. But he had never seen anyone reach for the divine sense within it.
That was something else entirely.
"Yes." His voice was quiet. "You're right. It will be a problem."
He took a step closer to Lamorak, lowering his voice.
"But even that which he aims for..." He looked at Mordred at the nephew who had once been a boy, at the monster he had become. "...it's hard to grasp. Even for a genius like him."
He turned to face Lamorak fully.
"Once he attains it... we will be out of this area."
Lamorak's brow furrowed.
"So he'll remove himself from the zone?" He nodded slowly. "That's enough."
Gareth smiled a thin, tired expression.
"You already know what I mean, don't you?"
Lamorak nodded.
He did know. The zone was a state of isolation a retreat from the world, a cutting off of the senses. To reach for the divine sense was to stay in that isolation, to dwell in it, to become it.
But Mordred was not the type to dwell.
He was a man of action, of movement, of conquest. Once he had what he wanted, he would leave the zone behind.
And in that moment of leaving that transition, that return to the world he would be vulnerable.
It would be enough.
For now.
Lamorak's voice was heavy.
"But if we notice a weakness from Arthur..." His eyes met Gareth's. "A sign of defeat... then what do we do?"
Gareth was silent for a long moment.
"Our majesty is like the sun." His voice was soft, almost reverent. "His power is immense. Almost infinite."
He looked toward the distant figure the blazing angel who walked toward them, his hair on fire, his sword burning.
"There are minutes in fact, impossible moments where even the sun falters."
His voice hardened.
"But due to the reality we experienced when we were alive... we cannot rule out that possibility."
He paused.
"His death... when we were alive... was due to the amount of power he outputted from his body. The power was much greater than his body could handle at that time." His jaw tightened. "Factored in with his older age."
Lamorak's eyes narrowed.
"So that's what I'm saying."
He stepped closer, his voice dropping.
"The battle of the king is the battle of his nation. And the battle of his nation..." He touched his chest over his heart. "...is the battle of the king."
He looked at Gareth.
"If we see fit..." His voice hardened. "...we shall enter."
He turned away, facing the direction where the distant figures moved where the survivors gathered, where the remnants of Camelot's army still fought to survive.
"Okay." He took a breath. "Let's head toward that side."
He held up his blade.
Storm Cutter.
The silver sword gleamed in the grey light ancient, powerful, alive. The edge hummed with a sound that was almost like breathing.
"My blade," Lamorak said, "is sensing all activities that are happening all around us."
He closed his eyes, letting the sword's awareness flow through him.
"I can feel each of it."
He stood still for a moment his body still, his mind racing, his blade singing with information.
Then he spoke.
"Thirteen Roman soldiers." His voice was flat, clinical. "They are going around... killing some of their own."
His brow furrowed.
"And there is a really powerful one." His eyes opened. "I think it's a general."
He looked at Gareth.
"He's watching everything that's going on." A pause. "And coming here."
He looked in another direction.
"The remaining of our comrades are on the way. Galahad and the rest." His jaw tightened. "Though it seems Lancelot and Sir Kay are in somewhat of a critical condition. They are with Tristan, Percival, and Leodegrance."
Gareth covered his face.
His hands pressed down on his temples, his forehead, his eyes. The gesture was weary exhausted, defeated, human.
"So that's how many of us are remaining," he said quietly.
He lowered his hands.
"The normal soldiers, then." His voice was flat. "How many of them are left?"
Lamorak delayed answering.
His soul furious not at Gareth, not at the question, but at the answer he was forced to give. The number burned in his throat like bile, like ash, like the death of everything they had fought for.
He forced the word out.
"Eighty."
Sir Gareth heard the number.
And for a moment just a moment the devil was overwhelmed.
Eighty soldiers. From an army that had numbered in the hundreds. From a force that had marched into this battle with hope, with pride, with the certainty of victory.
Eighty.
He looked up at the grey sky at the nothing that watched them, at the gods who did not care and smiled.
"No." His voice was quiet. "Change of plans."
He lowered his gaze.
"This war will no longer go on." His voice hardened. "We have lost men. We have lost assets."
He looked at Lamorak.
"Camelot will not fall again."
Lamorak's face twisted.
He wanted to argue. To fight. To scream that they could still win, that they could still avenge their fallen brothers, that they could still kill the bastard who had caused all of this.
But he said nothing.
Just nothing.
It was a sign of agreement.
Gareth nodded.
The devil the man who had been called undying, who had been feared by his fellow knights, who had schemed and plotted and killed for Camelot began to plan.
A retreat.
Not a surrender. Not a defeat. A strategic withdrawal. A chance to regroup, to heal, to live.
So that Camelot could rise again.
Gareth looked toward the blazing king.
Lamorak gripped his silver blade.
And somewhere in the distance, Mordred stood still in the zone, reaching for something beyond.